


Inside

by DisasterJones



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bi-Polar, Depression, Dissociation, Heavy Angst, Intrusive Thoughts, Self Harm, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterJones/pseuds/DisasterJones
Summary: Concept: Sean is bipolar, “Jack” persona is his normal bubbly self (read: manic swing) that he portrays for the audience, “Anti” is the collection of intrusive thoughts and generally a metaphor for depression and suicidal thoughts (depressive swing)Jack/Anti fic, small Markiplier feature





	1. Disconnect

**Author's Note:**

> CN: dissociation, anxiety, depression, intrusive/hostile thoughts  
> AN: conscious thoughts characterized by italics, intrusive thoughts (Anti's influence) are bolded

Glossy, unfocused eyes stared back at Sean from the mirror's surface, lightly clouded with steam from the recent shower. He'd hoped the trivial action might help shake him from the stupor he found himself in, but it only served to add a thickness to the atmosphere where there wasn't before, weighing on him further. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he leaned into the counter, the droplets that clung to his shoulders and spastic green locks flicking through the air with the impact. His mind continued to wander as he half-watched the droplets speckle the fogged glass and run slowly, collecting more moisture as each one fell, accelerating its descent.

His head swam, feeling a little overstuffed on one side and slightly deflated on the other. There was a constant low hum that seemed to vibrate through the base of his skull, rattling his brain and slightly muffling everything he heard. He winced and pinched his eyes shut as a pang of white hot fire shot through his temples, his mouth hanging open as he gasped in pain.

**Fuckin' pussy. Nobody cares.**

Sean backed away from the counter slowly, eyes still squeezed tightly closed, until he felt the dense, barely-ridged face of the wooden bathroom door. It provided a brief moment of relief – he wasn't sure if it was because it was cool against his skin, or if it was simply because it was a different sensation other than the splitting migraine. _I don't give a fuck either way,_ _ **I still wanna die**_ _,_ he thought bitterly. He sighed slowly and carefully took in shallow gulps of air as he lowered himself to the floor, his shoulders lightly catching and scraping again the divots in the panels as he fell. He tried to focus on sensations that weren't the pain he felt, but anytime he made any progress, he was reminded of how little it mattered.

**You'll never get any fuckin better. Why do you keep trying? Just give up already.**

It was like this every day. He would wake up refreshed and sprightly, get a massive rush of energy, record a couple videos, and as soon as he'd finish, he would spiral, Anti would come, and it was usually hell from there on out until he literally collapsed. Like clockwork. And the cycle never seemed to end. Anti had a point – why did he keep trying?

**That's the spirit.**

_Shut the hell up_ , he furrowed his brow in anger, determined to hold back the tears that threatened to the corners of his eyes like daggers. A lump that seemed to be the size of a softball was lodged in his throat, and he was sure if he let it loose, the sobs would never stop coming. That was the last thing he needed – yet another thing for Anti to ridicule him for, to hurt him with, to be right about.

**It's good that you finally realize the truth. I'm only here to help you, you know.**

Sean's lips involuntarily shifted into a resentful sneer and he chuckled wryly to himself, _Yeah, some fuckin help you are._

His eyes drifted open wearily as the voice unleashed a litany of affronts on him.

 **YOU ARE NO ONE**  
**YOU ARE NOTHING  
** **THEY DON'T LOVE YOU  
** **NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU  
** **YOU DO NOT MATTER TO ANYONE  
** **THE SOONER YOU REMEMBER THAT THE EASIER THIS WILL BE**

He clasped the sides of his head in quiet desperation; his eyes blurred quickly, brimming with despair. Like clockwork. A choked sob escaped his throat, dry and cracked.

**Fucking cry, you little bitch baby. Cry like the little weakling you are, you worthless sack of shit.**

  
"STOP IT" he screamed aloud, pounding a clenched fist against his temple. He planted his hands firmly against the ground, pushing himself up and standing indignantly. Tears shook from his eyelashes and fell softly onto his cheeks – he hurriedly wiped his face with the back of his hand and cursed under his breath. He rushed from the bathroom to his bedroom, the towel dropping from his waist carelessly as he went. Each surface Sean passed reflected him, but it wasn't him. It was never the quick flash of his form passively moving through the space, no – it was always _his_ face, glaring and sneering back at him, one eye hollow and empty except for the tiniest speck of acid green.

He threw open the dresser drawer impatiently, haphazardly throwing on a random pair of sweats before slamming it shut. The impact caused the dresser to wobble dangerously and a few assorted items dropped, thudding lightly on the carpet. Sean's irritability doubled, despite the minor occurrence. Anti was to blame for that – the downswing meant nothing when it came to his mood, it usually just meant he slept more; but when Anti reared his ugly head, Sean's usually endless patience and giddy, charming demeanor disappeared.

Sean heard the soft whir of the text tone and stomped quickly over to the bedside table where his phone lay. He tapped the screen to reveal the message:

> [Mark:] Heya buddy. Thought we had plans, but I hadn't heard from you yet. Everything alright?

**Aww, wouldja look at that, he's _worried_ about you**

Sean felt a momentary swell of gratitude – it wasn't uncommon for his best friend to check in on him like this, but Mark had always seemed to have a knack for knowing the perfect time to reach out. His fingers wrapped tentatively around the device as he hesitantly typed out a response.

**...not that you deserve that.**

Sean's heart ached and his eyes glossed over, his message hanging unfinished as he felt sadness overwhelm him. Anti's cruel words slashed at his every insecurity.

**You know none of them really care.**

His arms dropped to his sides in submission and he hung his head slowly, broken sobs gurgling from his throat. _I know, I know..._ he couldn't push the idea out anymore: nobody cared, and anyone who said they did was pretending for pity's sake.

Like dessert too sweet or a blanket too thick, he was enveloped in a warm, accepting feeling, the abuser within him cooing gently in agreement. It was winning, and Sean had grown apathetic. _It's too much,_ he thought blankly. _I can't win._

_**No, you can't.** _

His phone slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor face-up, the unsent message on the screen fading to black as the screen lock engaged. Sean turned and ambled from his room, worn and empty. As his feet disappeared beyond the threshold, the phone thrummed again, muffled quietly against the fibers of the carpet. The screen illuminated with Sean's draft as well as the new message:

> (DRAFT)  
>  [Sean:] Not really, man – it's a bad day today. I could use
> 
> NEW MESSAGE  
>  [Mark:] Hello? Jack?

A second message came through, but Sean was already long gone.

> NEW MESSAGE (2)  
>  [Mark:] Hello? Jack?  
>  [Mark:] I'm worried. Please call me.


	2. Falter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concept: Sean is bipolar, “Jack” persona is his normal bubbly self (read: manic swing) that he portrays for the audience, “Anti” is the collection of intrusive thoughts and generally a metaphor for depression and suicidal thoughts (depressive swing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm, destructive tendencies  
> CN: dissociation, anxiety, depression, intrusive/hostile thoughts, alcohol, vomit  
> AN: conscious thoughts characterized by italics, intrusive thoughts (Anti's influence) are bolded

He wasn't sure when it happened, but at some point Sean had consumed a six pack of some Irish stout and drained a fifth of Jack Daniels. There was no memory of ever having a single drink, but the evidence of bottles surrounding his groggy, still intoxicated form could only point to the contrary. 

His head ached and spun as he tried to look around. The entrance to the computer room swirled around his sight, hazy and blinding – he squinted and groaned to himself, staving off wave after uncomfortable wave of nausea, his stomach gurgling thickly.

He discovered he was sitting outside his bathroom door, leaned up against the frame and hunched over precariously – his skin sticky with sweat and creating a firm seal against the wall. Sean unstuck himself and sat upright, but a little too quick, and dizziness quickly caught up to him. His eyes blurred and his mouth watered generously as he felt his stomach give a few threatening flops. 

Panicked, he scrambled to his hands and knees and crawled across the tile to the toilet, his nostrils filling with the scent of sick and ammonia. His gaze met the murky discolored water, and just as suddenly as he saw the previous set of floating chunks congealed upon the surface, his stomach erupted and more vomit surged violently from his throat. A dribble of wetness hit his forehead – he prayed it was sweat from his brow and not, _uuuurgh_ , backsplash. He decided not to think too much of it and wiped the back of his left hand across his brow, smearing away the mysterious moisture. He vaguely noticed a strange texture, but the sensory overload crushed him and he had to get away from the smell of his previous night's adventures.

Slowly sitting back from the bowl, he slid his right hand up to the lid and gently set it closed, the left hesitating on the handle for a moment. He took a deep breath and dropped his hand down, quickly covering his ears to muffle the roar of rushing water filling the room. His head ached savagely and he thought he might pass out from the pain.

_I need to get some food and coffee in me,_ Sean quietly convinced himself. It was a hard sell, but he knew it was the only thing that could remotely improve this feeling in his stomach, let alone his head. Breathing evenly again, he sat forward and lifted his arms above his head, grasping the edge of the counter for stability. He pulled himself up slowly, intent on keeping his head from swimming more than it already was. Vertigo made his stomach lurch again and he held still for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as he took deep breaths through his nose and exhaled smoothly through pursed lips.

When Sean reopened his eyes, they focused for the first time since he woke from his drunken slumber. His gaze settled on his left forearm, recognizing one of his favorite bandannas tied securely around his wrist. An eyebrow raised slightly, shifting his expression from a grimace to a confused squint as he reached for the fabric. He tugged lightly at the the knot on the side, deftly untangling the cloth, but he noticed with a bit of discomfort – each adjustment and application of pressure made his arm surge with pain. As the bandanna dropped from his arm, he stared in horror as his eyes drank in angry red gnashes against his wrist, scattered like cross hatching up and down from palm to elbow.

He felt fuzzy, tingly all over, but he didn't think it was from the alcohol in his system. He tried to control the impending swell of anxiety that crashed against his grip on reality. Sean's insides twisted viciously as he twisted the faucet and ran his arm tentatively beneath the stream of water in the sink. He gingerly rubbed at the marks, flecking and smudging away dried material and scabs – his mind wandered as his fingers tenderly cleaned the wounds. He tried to focus instead on the feeling of the water cascading over the skin – the way it rushed in and around the cuts, the slight cool burn that would be replaced with fleeting numbness.

_I don't remember anything,_ he mused absently, lightly running his thumb in circles across the marks. He glanced down to shut off the water and gently padded his hands and forearm with a towel. He turned to leave the bathroom when he noticed something in the corner of his eye – something red.

He scanned his environment slowly until a blinking light caught his attention. Eyes fixed upon his camera set up on his desk in the computer room across the hall, he began to approach, recognizing the familiar flash of the light as the indication it was recording. He circled around cautiously behind the camera, the screen confirming his suspicions with a bright white timer that steadily increased in real time.

  
"FIVE HOURS? What have I been recording for FIVE hours?!" He snatched the camera from the tripod to halt the recording, grumbling sourly, "That's enough outta you."

  
As he loaded up the footage that had evidently been captured while he'd been three sheets to the wind, he tapped his foot with lazy aggravation, impatient with the wait but too lethargic to be doing anything productive otherwise. Finally the program chirped softly, a tiny system message popping up to tell him the transfer had been completed. He opened up the video player and started the recording, heartbeat rapid and seeming to climb up his esophagus with each second.

The image of Sean's bare torso and uninjured left arm blipped onto the monitor, out of focus and without any color balance applied, causing Sean's pasty features to be even more whitewashed than normal, and with a peculiar green hue. He watched himself squat down, face too close for the camera to focus, but he noticed that his eyes were green instead of their usual blue.

  
"The fuck?" He glared suspiciously at the screen, trying to determine if the color difference was a trick of the camera or if something else was going on.

  
His face smiled back at him through the monitor, but looking less and less like himself with each moment, before it finally spoke. When Sean's voice rang through the computer, it sounded wrong, like there was some kind of distortion on it.

_**  
You can't win.** _

  
Sean gaped in shock at the screen and his hand flew instinctively to his damaged flesh, his eyes blurring as his mind searched for where he'd heard those words last.

Then he remembered: he'd said them to himself.

_It's too much,_ his own hollow voice echoed through his mind, _I can't win._

  
He watched in a dazed silence as 5-hours-ago-Sean backed up from the camera, revealing the six pack and the fifth he recalled finding around himself when he'd awoken. He blinked rapidly, feeling a strange tingling sensation wash gently over his skull and down his spine, spreading through his ribs and branching out to his limbs. Lightheaded and breathing shallow, the edges of his vision tunneled into white streaks – he swallowed deep as his field of view wildly expanded and contracted. He willed his eyes to close, to break away from what he was seeing, but his body refused to respond.

The image danced on the screen as it chugged beer after beer after beer, barely taking the time to breathe. Each new bottle was opened with his fingernails, each time eliciting a horrible scraping noise, followed quickly by his own hysterical laughter that trailed into frustrated, pitiful sobs. Something about it made Sean's skin flare with goosebumps; he nervously tabbed back a few seconds in the recording. 

The bottle lifted from the case. The nails gripped the cap like a tiger claw. Sean paused the footage for a moment and stared, eyes narrowed in unnerved confusion. _What was the point of that?_ he thought to himself as he examined his fingernails, discovering they were chipped and cracked and stained with blood. The fingertips stung as they made contact with one another, raw from his efforts the night before.

He unpaused the footage as the bottle popped open, and the cackling that followed sent shivers down his spine. Again, that same distortion, like white noise and the shriek of what he could only assume were demons from hell. The laughter gently trailed off into broken, clipped sobs that hiccuped into nothingness, but the cries didn't sound the same as the laughter just moments before. 

Sean cringed as his image reached for another beer bottle, so he fast-forwarded through, trying to get glimpses of any other odd behavior, rather than watching his apparent fingernail torture. He stopped on a section of video just as his visage enveloped the screen, appearing to now sit at the desk, hunched over close to the camera. The last beer sat in the camera's view alongside the mostly empty bottle of Jack, whose cap could barely be made out on the floor in the background.

Sean stared, captivated, as his face in the screen lifted slowly to meet his own gaze. It lulled softly to one side, the eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot, searching wildly and unable to focus.

**  
You know, you don't have to keep doing this.**

  
Sean's voice barely murmured through the speakers, soft and pleading, thick with emotion and noticeably unaltered. It sounded much like his own voice, like it would just after he'd been crying. He felt his brow relax and the tension in his neck and shoulders break slightly. _Doing what?_ he pondered, searching the copy of himself in the pixels with curious and empathetic eyes, trying to make sense of the expression he wore. 

The recording jerked and stuttered for a moment, white and black lines scratched across and shearing the image. It flickered before resuming play, cutting to his image now sitting upright and facing the camera directly. An unexpected gasp rushed from Sean's lips as his past self grinned at the camera with a menacing expression, eyes bulging and seeping black. It flickered one last time before showing Sean as he normally was, blue eyes, a mop of green hair pushed carelessly to one side, but his expression was vacant.

The dim glow of the monitor filled the room as Sean stared into the slack face that gaped back at him with an empty, unblinking, thousand-yard-stare. A single tear brimmed at the edge of one eye and spilled over, careening softly down his cheek and disappearing into the folds of his sweatpants. Sean could see his hands in the frame, one clenched so tight the knuckles were beyond white – they seemed to be turning blue from the lack of circulation. The other hand was wrapped around a serrated steak knife he didn't remember grabbing or seeing in the footage before. 

He stared in widemouthed horror as the image of himself slashed into his wrist rhythmically and without so much as wincing. The eyes were deadpan and unmoving, not looking at the camera or the wounds or apparently anything – it was at this moment Sean realized that when he was recording, mentally he was somewhere else entirely.

He felt his skull tingle and prickle, hopeless fear and despair filling him with dread. Harsh white circles blotted out his vision, the deafening hum of his dissociation returning to echo in his ears. He stared into the monitor with wet eyes as his image's blood spilled steadily from his wrist. After a moment or two, he seemed to 'come to' onscreen, drunkenly panicking over the injury. Sean watched his rushed clean-up process through tears, hand tightly gripping the swollen lacerations. He couldn't hold back anymore as loud sobs burst forth, tears stained his face and snot bubbled from his nose. He struggled to breathe in between strangled cries, coughing and hacking when his lungs protested the lack of oxygen.

He heard a loud slam, then quick quiet footsteps that steadily grew louder. He wheezed in shock, trying to gain control of himself, unable to shake the hysterics that overwhelmed him. Suddenly, the door flung open, and a dark figure swooped upon Sean and embraced him warmly. He looked up to find Mark, his glasses fogged and his forehead beaded with sweat, suggesting he'd been running vigorously. Gentle umber eyes stared down in Sean's frantic face, too lost in his own spiral to even acknowledge the impossibility of Mark's presence. He cried out desperately and wrapped his arms around his neck, wailing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

  
"I think I tried to kill myself."

  
Sean's words sputtered and hitched in his throat and he broke again. Mark sighed against him, concern for his friend weighing heavy on his heart. Sean felt a pang of regret at his friend's reaction and dropped his arms to his sides, feeling pathetic and worthless. He questioned what purpose there was to worrying anyone when he was hardly worth the effort – perhaps he should've just finished the job when he had the chance. _What a waste of time this must be_ , he thought bitterly.

Mark pulled back from him and gave a long, wistful look before glancing down and reaching tentatively for his wrist. Sean didn't move, resigned and defeated. What did it matter if Mark examined his wounds now? _I'll just take care of it proper when he leaves,_ he resolved apathetically.

Mark's fingers traced the cuts softly, lightly brushing at the edges of tears in the skin. Sean's attention snapped from his thoughts to reality as his gaze focused on his forearm, observing strong, tanned fingers lightly caressing his wounds. Sean looked up into Mark's face, partially obscured by thick scarlet locks that hung in large loose curls, his countenance twisted into a heartbreaking expression of remorse.

Mark took a deep breath and blinked the brimming tears back, sniffling for a moment and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Once he composed himself, he looked up into Sean's face again and swallowed, thinking of what to say. Silence hung in the air as the two stared at each other in silence with glassy, bloodshot eyes. Finally, Mark sat forward for a moment to properly angle himself as he removed his shirt – his hair flopped through the neckhole and fluffed to one side as the fabric slid over his head. Underneath he wore a light tanktop, but Sean's gaze was drawn to the web of burn scars that patterned Mark's upper arm. 

He reached out unthinking and touched a lightning-shaped scar that dipped from his shoulder into his clavicle, mouth slightly agape in fascination and empathy. Sean could make out the shape of the blade edge Mark had used to sear his skin – he noticed it wasn't simply the flat edge of the blade, but intricate patterns carved in thin lines that reached halfway across his pectoral muscle, the ridges of the design visible through the thin material of his shirt.

Sean looked tentatively up at Mark, hand still outstretched and gently tracing the raised flesh, his eyes full of sorrow. Mark wrapped Sean's hand in his own tenderly and placed the other on the back of Sean's neck, gingerly pulling their foreheads together.

  
He whispered softly, squeezing the soft pale fingers lovingly, "You don't have to keep doing this."

"Doing what?" Sean murmured quietly, gaze averted and distant.

Mark pulled his head back and gently placed his lips against Sean's forehead, leaning a cheek against it as he spoke, "You don't have to keep doing this alone."

  
Sean tried to speak but his voice caught harshly in his throat. For so long he'd convinced himself that he was alone, that his only company were the horrible thoughts, and that was all he deserved. As if reading his mind, Mark's arms wrapped around Sean's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug that seemed to last, blissfully, forever.

  
"I'm here for you, I'll always be here for you. I love you, okay?"

Sean sobbed quietly into his shirt, nodding quickly and sputtering against his chest, "I-I-I luh-love you too-oo man." Mark rocked him silently, gently stroking his back and hair, grateful for the life of the man in his arms.

He smiled gently and whispered, "Hey Jack."

Sean sniffled for a minute before glancing up at him. "Yeah Mark?"

Mark chuckled lightly as Sean's stomach thundered loudly, clearly demanding sustenance. "Whaddya say we get some breakfast?"


End file.
